


With Measured and Perfect Motion

by flammablehat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Kink Discovery, M/M, viktor's foot thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: Yuuri discovers that risking failure, or worse, embarrassment, has become much easier with Viktor in his life.





	With Measured and Perfect Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago and wasn't happy with it. Came back to it and didn't hate it, and it's been more than a year since I've posted something, so why not, right? Title from 'I Sing the Body Electric' by Walt Whitman.

Viktor pats his thigh as he joins Yuuri on the couch. It only takes Yuuri a moment to remember this is Viktor’s way of asking for his feet; he twists sideways and slips his calves across Viktor’s leg, heels in Viktor’s lap, before returning his attention to his pudding. Viktor settles happily, sliding his thumbs up Yuuri’s insteps. 

“You did well today,” he says brightly. “We should focus on your transition out of the second jump combo tomorrow, but otherwise you’re already looking pretty clean.” 

Yuuri hums, trying not to wiggle. Praise from Viktor still makes effervescent warmth fizz low in his belly, but the sensation is muddled by the fragile soreness of his feet in Viktor’s hands. His touch is unfailingly gentle, more careful rubbing than massage. It’s only the tenderness of Yuuri’s skin and some kind of vestigial fear of being tickled that has him preemptively wincing with every careful brush of Viktor’s fingers. He hisses a little when Viktor presses his left foot back, the pull arrowing from behind his knee down to his achilles. Viktor lifts a brow and switches feet. 

“We already did our stretches,” Yuuri says, unsure if he wants Viktor to stop or just go back to more idle petting. Viktor smiles, something small and sweet, and cups Yuuri’s heel in his palm before lifting Yuuri’s foot to his mouth, kissing the inner arch. The fizziness in Yuuri’s belly washes through his chest and the back of his neck, surprising him with heat. 

“You’ll thank me tomorrow morning,” Viktor says, but he settles Yuuri’s feet back in his lap and restrains himself to keeping them under his hands while they watch a movie. 

+

Yuuri buys the stockings on a whim. They’re black, and sheer, with some kind of thin rubbery material sewn into the lacy banding that helps them stay up on his thighs. He likes everything about the way they make him look and feel, even the mild embarrassment that comes with trying them on in secret, head tilted with appraisal at his reflection. The only thing he doesn’t like is the way his leg hair pokes through the fabric. 

He bites his lip and carefully rolls the stockings off, hiding them at the back of his sock drawer. 

“Yuuri!” Viktor carols, muffled beyond the closed bedroom door. “What are you doing? Makka and I are getting lonely!” 

“I’ll be out in a second,” Yuuri calls back, shoving the drawer shut. “I’m just — I’m putting away laundry!” 

“Laundry is so boring!” Viktor is moaning as Yuuri comes back into the living room, finding him staring mournfully into Makkachin’s eyes as he rubs his ears. “Why does our Yuuri love being tidy more than he loves us, Makka?” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes, ignoring Viktor’s pleased cooing as he climbs into his lap. 

+

“Uh. Mila?” Yuuri sidles up to her at the rink while she’s re-lacing her boots. She looks up with a surprised smile, startlingly pretty. Why is everyone in Russia so effortlessly pretty? 

“What’s up, Yuuri?” she scoots over on the otherwise empty bench, which Yuuri takes as an invitation to join her. He sits. 

“I have a weird question for you. As a girl. Woman.” Yuuri is going to walk into the Gulf of Finland and drown himself. 

“Yes?” Mila says, with an amused look like she’d be teasing him if their relationship was just a touch less professional. He’s grateful. 

“We’re — Viktor and I, that is, we’re considering some different options for my, um, costumes this season,” he starts, tugging up the leg of his track pants so he can avoid looking her in the eyes. “They’re a little sheer, and I’m not sure what to do about...all this.” He brushes his leg hair up, startled when Mila makes a noise of understanding and touches his leg too. Her expression is assessing. 

“Your hair is quite thin, and you’re lucky that it lies flat. I don’t think anyone would be able to see unless they were very close to you, but it can feel annoying, I suppose. Have you tried shaving? Oh, you have,” she says, finding the small bare patch on Yuuri’s calf. The heat in Yuuri’s face climbs. 

“It was messy. And I was worried I was going to cut myself.” And Viktor was whining about how much time he was taking in the bathroom, but Mila doesn’t need to know that. 

“I know, right?” Mila sighs, patting his knee. “I prefer wax, personally. It’s more expensive, and you have upkeep, but it’s easy. Do you want to try?” she offers. “I have an appointment in a week; I could add you to it?” 

“That would be...great,” Yuuri says, fumbling with the sudden need for a decision. Mila beams, eyes crinkling. 

“Great! I get credits for bringing friends, so we can have a little spa day!” 

Yuuri nods and smiles, excusing himself so he doesn’t immediately back out. He’s made it this far on impulse, and the only reason he hasn’t balked yet at this whole...idea...growing outside its original bounds is because it’s absurd. He can manage it in pieces: the stockings, his secretive attempt at shaving, enlisting Mila’s help. He can’t quite look at the culmination too closely, except to remind himself he’s doing all of it for Viktor, and for Viktor he can be brave. 

+

“Are you ready? I’m so excited!” Mila takes his hands outside of a very small, very boutique looking shop. “I’ve never done this with a friend before!” 

“Me either,” Yuuri says, letting her tug him inside. The interior telegraphs an expensive serenity. The minimal seating is covered in cream-colored leather, the walls a delicate sage. The front desk, currently unoccupied, looks carved entirely from some kind of translucent stone with spidery veining that ranges from a mossy green to a pale gold. Mila finds a cleverly hidden mini fridge and helps herself to two sparkling waters, passing one to him. “Are you and Viktor related, by any chance?” he asks.

“No, why do you ask?” There’s a puzzled pinch to her brow as she takes a sip of her water. 

“No reason,” Yuuri says. Perhaps they’re both just Like That, though whether it’s being Russian or beautiful or some combination of the two Yuuri can’t begin to guess.

At that moment, a young woman emerges from the back to collect them, and Yuuri follows with some trepidation as they’re ushered into private rooms. Before she leaves, she instructs him to strip while pantomiming unzipping her pants, making her meaning clear. 

Hesitant, Yuuri shucks his pants and folds them neatly, casting about for a place to put them. There’s a single cube in the corner, upholstered in the same leather as the painfully geometric furniture out front. He sets his pants there, socks on top, and tugs a little at the hem of his shirt. There is no reason to feel self-conscious. It’s different than the onsen, but most things are. The door opens again on a different woman, making Yuuri jump. 

There is something comforting in her brusque indifference to his embarrassment as she pats him on the thigh and directs him up onto a long, padded table. Yuuri is accustomed to pain, so the waxing process itself doesn’t concern him until the first strip goes on — and then it comes off. 

“Ow!” he yelps, giving his tormenter a wounded look when she only chuckles darkly. To her credit, she’s fast, and even starts to give him a moment to brace for the sting before whipping off each subsequent strip. He doesn’t exactly get used to the sensation, but the wax feels kind of nice before it’s pulled off, and the rhythm lulls him through the worst of it until indifferent fingers spread his cheeks. Before he can protest, the wax hits his crack and his hands are being guided to hold himself spread. 

“Fuck!” he curses into the towel under his face as a strip of fire licks him from the tender underside of his butt to the extremely private and sensitive skin around his hole. He gets a condescending pat on his left cheek for his trouble. 

After a brief, impersonal rub-down with some soothing lotion, the ordeal seems to be over with. He’s left alone to put his clothes back on, which he does after running his hands up and down his legs in mild wonder. He feels very… sleek. Even the little hairs on the tops of his toes are gone. 

Dressed and lost, he wanders the hall until the first woman finds him and leads him to yet another room. He’s greeted by quiet instrumental music and Mila reclining regally while no less than three people paint her toes and massage her hands. She smiles underneath the pristine white towel covering her eyes as his guide directs something to Mila in Russian. 

“Yuuri! Yana says you did very good with your first waxing! Well done. Come sit.” 

He takes the cushiony-looking chair by her side, eyeing the attached, empty foot bath in front of him with some interest. It’s small enough to be unobtrusive. Viktor would probably like a setup like this. 

“Have you been in here the whole time?” he asks, looking up. Mila seems very unconcerned with the distribution of her limbs. A hot, damp towel descends over Yuuri’s face out of nowhere. There’s an amused murmur at his flinch of surprise, followed by his chair shaking to life with unnervingly rumbly vibration. 

“Now Yana says you are jumpy,” Mila helpfully translates. “But yes, I like to do my pedicure and manicure first. Wax after. Did you want to do anything else while you’re here?” 

“Er,” Yuuri says from under his towel. A gentle hand touches his ankle, followed by what sounds like a question. Yuuri blindly turns his head toward Mila. 

“You could have a facial. Anna says she can paint your toes too, if you like,” Mila offers.

“Er,” Yuuri says again. 

“I think you would look very nice in purple,” she adds. 

“Okay,” Yuuri says, after a beat. The vibrating chair is quite pleasant, now that he’s settled into it, and he likes purple. He can close his eyes and listen to Mila’s rink gossip for a little while, even if it does feel strange to be touched so much in a single day by anyone other than Viktor. 

+

His legs are smooth and his toes are oddly captivating, berry colored and glossy, and the only reason Viktor hasn’t noticed yet is due to the strange luck of their conflicting schedules. Anxiety tugs Yuuri both ways between reluctant indecision and the fear that Viktor will brush up against him in bed or see his feet and ruin the surprise before Yuuri can share it with him. Properly. 

He simply needs to _do_ it, put on the stockings and not give himself room to chicken out. When Viktor leaves before the sun is up to work on his own training, Yuuri has a couple private hours to look in the mirror and feel ridiculous. He likes his legs, and the stockings make him feel silky, liquid, maybe even desirable. But then it’s just him on top, which he knows Viktor… well, Viktor likes him, obviously, but Yuuri’s awkward impulses towards sexy flights of fancy still don’t feel like a true fit. They feel more like putting the flat ends of two unrelated puzzle pieces together and hoping no one will say anything. 

Viktor would never say anything awful. Or he might, by accident, but Yuuri knows he would still genuinely appreciate the gesture. Even if it does end with them giggling. He smiles a little at the thought, ignoring how watery his gut feels. 

Tonight is as good an opportunity as any. Viktor has been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints about going out, which is an inevitability Yuuri has learned to put off only at his own peril. He carefully folds the stockings inside a sock, and then hides the sock at the bottom of his gym bag. They sit like a hook in his brain all through training, a fixed point his mind can’t stray too far from.

Viktor’s mouth goes flat at his obvious distraction; it makes Yuuri sloppy, a bad example for the younger skaters who are always, always watching. It’s a silent backdrop for the shrill, mocking panic screaming between Yuuri’s own ears. He takes a ten minute break outside and lets his body slowly double over, focusing on his breathing as he stares at his shoes. 

A heavy sigh makes him straighten so fast his head clips the brick wall behind him. Yuri’s face is a picture of exquisite boredom as Yuuri rubs his head, feeling himself flush. 

“Do I want to know why you’re a mess today?” Yuri asks. 

Yuuri shifts, looking away. “No.”

“Are you still going to be a mess tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow’s my rest day,” Yuuri starts, catching himself as Yuri’s face darkens thunderously. “Everything is fine, Yurio.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Yuri snaps, reflexive. “And get your shit together or go home. You’re putting the whole rink off.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes and turns to head back inside.

“Good talk, Yurio,” Yuuri calls after him. 

+

Dinner starts with a brutal, detailed review of all of his mistakes that lasts through their appetizers and only slows as their meals arrive. Yuuri isn’t sure if it’s because the list has actually been exhausted or if Viktor’s distracted by his food. Yuuri has been compulsively shifting his ankles together for the slippery ease of it under the table, so he’s missed some of the details of his scolding. 

The stockings are thinner than dress socks, and the heels of Yuuri’s shoes slide on and off with only a whisper of resistance. He bites his lip and nods his thanks to their server as his plate is set before him, and takes a big breath. 

“It’s one day, Yuuri. It happens to everyone,” Viktor says. 

“What?” Yuuri shakes his head, pressing his glasses back up his nose. “Oh, yeah. I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been a...strange day.” 

“I saw Yura cornered you.” Viktor smirks.

“He gave me permission to go home instead of demoralizing the rest of the rink.” 

Viktor’s smile drops, brows pinching. “Oh, did he?” 

“Yeah, so you have that to look forward to on bad days now.” Yuuri puts a bite in his mouth and smiles around his fork. 

“Brat,” Viktor says, and it’s unclear if he means Yuri or Yuuri. 

Under the table, Yuuri slips his foot out of his shoe, clenching his toes. Above the table, he cuts off a piece of his chicken for Viktor to try, completely benign. It takes a second for Viktor’s praise of the dish to trail off as Yuuri’s foot finds his shin, sliding up. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, everything inside him gone very still. Viktor’s attention is fixed on him, now. “I’ve just missed you lately.” 

Viktor takes a moment to clear his throat, touching the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He raises his hand, beckoning over their server. Yuuri almost pulls back, uncertain, when Viktor clears his throat again and says, “Two boxes and the check, please.” 

+

The kissing against the car is fun, urgent and hot. Yuuri’s relief is temporary, lasting until Viktor has him up against their front door, murmuring “ _Finally_ ,” against his mouth. 

“You have to take Makka out,” Yuuri says, panting under the sucking kisses Viktor trails down his throat. Viktor whines, hands tightening on Yuuri’s ass, and Yuuri has a disorienting moment of panic panic panic — a vision of everything stuttering to a grinding, awkward halt as Viktor discovers the stockings, then Yuuri’s bald legs and painted toes. Yuuri’s going to have to _explain_ , and Viktor will be kind but this — their sweet, easy momentum — will be gone, ruined. “Viktor,” he starts, closing his eyes, and Viktor surges up to kiss him again, deep and filthy, before wrenching away. 

“Okay,” Viktor says, stepping back, mouth wet. “Get on the bed; I’ll be back in five minutes.” 

Makkachin bounds happily after Viktor’s heels, leaving Yuuri to kick off his shoes, put some kibble in Makka’s bowl, put their leftovers away, and flick the light on in the bedroom. He takes off his pants and shirt, hesitating over the elastic of the stockings. He sits on the edge of the bed. It’s now or never; Yuuri bites his lip at his reflection in their bedroom mirror. 

His heart almost slams out of his chest at the sound of the front door, Makkachin’s nails clicking on the kitchen tile and soft crunching as he discovers his kibble. 

Viktor skids into the bedroom, spinning to close the door. “Now,” he says, turning, “Where were we—” And he stops. 

Yuuri can feel his heartbeat in his ears and the tips of his fingers, watching Viktor stare. 

“I,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor crouches in front of him, not laughing. His hand hovers over Yuuri’s calf, eyes panning from his feet up to his thighs and down again. When he does look up at Yuuri, his eyes are wide, lips parted, soft with wonder. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, voice all breath. Like he’s winded, like he—

“You— do you like it?” Yuuri says. 

“ _Like_ it? Yuuri,” Viktor pauses, hands finally settling on Yuuri’s thighs, squeezing around the lace banding. He shakes his head, not to say no, but as if he doesn’t know how to finish the thought. Instead he leans in, down, and with a start Yuuri realizes Viktor is moving to kiss his belly, or—

—Viktor jolts to a stop with Yuuri’s foot at his chest. 

Yuuri falls back onto his elbows, fingers digging into the bedspread at the heat that transforms Viktor’s expression. Their eyes lock, and Yuuri’s pulse ratchets higher, watching himself be watched. 

Viktor stands slowly. His weight leans into Yuuri’s foot, subtle but present, one hand cupping Yuuri’s calf before drawing down to circle his ankle. 

After a moment, Yuuri brings his other foot up, carefully plucking at the waist of Viktor’s pants with his toes. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, pinned as he is by the beautiful severity of Viktor’s face, so rarely without the silly charm that softens him. Yuuri isn’t sure he’s seen Viktor like this before; it sends adrenaline and anticipation running hot through his veins. 

One silver eyebrow arches, cool fingers ghosting over the top of Yuuri’s foot before shifting to trouser placket. Button and zip undone, Viktor’s pants loosen around his hips, slowly crumpling to the floor. Yuuri almost pulls away when Viktor lifts the hem of his shirt, but Viktor catches him, keeps Yuuri’s sole pressed flat to his sternum. Yuuri can feel the slither of fabric under his heel as the shirt is pulled free, mussing Viktor’s hair before joining his pants on the ground. 

Yuuri swallows, tracing Viktor’s familiar shape because he can’t quite meet Viktor’s eyes. Another drag with his free foot makes the band of Viktor’s briefs twist, rolling over the curve of his ass. Taking his cue, Viktor hooks his thumbs into the waistband and bends a little to drop them down his legs. 

Somehow, in spite of every solid, familiar, comforting thing they’ve built together, Viktor can still catch Yuuri under the ribs and leave him breathless. It’s the unreality of his presence in Yuuri’s life, the unreality of how much Yuuri wants him, the unreality of how those feelings seem to be reciprocated. Viktor’s gaze is searing, all of him still canted towards Yuuri, predatory and patient while Yuuri weathers the invisible, silent blow of it crashing over him all at once. It leaves him feeling… bold. Powerful, to hold Viktor’s regard in his hands.

Galvanized, Yuuri gently nudges the heavy curve of Viktor’s cock, pressing it up with the ball of his foot. He watches carefully, pleased when the hunger on Viktor’s face sharpens. He’s already hard, the silky elasticity of his foreskin a sensual counterpoint to Yuuri’s stocking. With a few careful motions, Yuuri can get it to slip down, revealing and recapturing the plumpness of the head with its movement. 

Mild pain registers in the foot Yuuri still has pressed to Viktor’s chest, four points where Viktor’s fingers have tightened. Yuuri gently tugs that foot free, sliding down the shallow valley of Viktor’s abdominal muscles, carefully skirting his groin, along his thigh. He draws back up, slow, lifting into the soft heat of Viktor’s balls. 

Their breathing comes in faint, ragged tandem. Yuuri’s legs are beginning to warm with the effort of his control, rubbing so softly in such small movements. It hardly registers, insignificant next to the way Viktor’s brows draw together, an almost hurt expression of need as he watches Yuuri’s feet. 

Reassured, however unusual or unexpected the whole stocking ...idea… may have been at first, Yuuri considers hooking his legs behind Viktor’s back to draw him in and carry on like they began. 

As if he can read Yuuri’s mind, Viktor’s hands lock on Yuuri’s ankles and force him still. He’s almost panting, head tilted so his hair slips down over his eyes, and something leaps uncomfortably in Yuuri’s chest. Did he… did he push too hard? 

“Yuuri.” His name sounds rough in Viktor’s mouth. 

Yuuri starts to get his hands under him, tries to sit up, and then goes still as Viktor carefully draws Yuuri’s feet together around his cock. It’s a strange position, easier if he lets his knees fall apart, which makes Viktor gasp and thrust. 

Yuuri drops back to the bed, something visceral jolting inside him again. He arches his feet, body moving two steps ahead of his brain, his toes curling against the soft hair around the base of Viktor’s shaft. The noise Viktor makes is helpless, and prickly heat surges under Yuuri’s skin. 

When Viktor finally meets his eyes, Yuuri skims his hand down his belly, into his underwear and around his cock. 

In the next second the wind is knocked out of him, knees pressed down to his chest. Viktor’s hands hold his feet tight and steady under his weight, fucking into the narrow space between Yuuri’s arches. The stockings smooth his movement, warming a little with the friction. 

The rhythm and pressure of Viktor on top of him are so familiar it makes arousal curl and lash in Yuuri’s belly. He’s airless and dizzy, his own hand on his cock impossibly good. Viktor is ferocious in his lust, leaving Yuuri’s ankles clawed in one hand as the other steadies him on the bed over Yuuri’s shoulder. It brings them so close, makes Yuuri’s range of motion tight, arm jerking sporadically against the smoothness of his own thigh as he squeezes his feet together and watches Viktor unravel. 

Almost as abruptly as he threw himself on top of Yuuri, Viktor eases back, dragging his fingers over Yuuri’s legs as he goes. Runs bloom down the stockings in the wake of his hands, which settle again over both of Yuuri’s feet. Viktor shifts, grinding up against the sole of one foot from heel to ball, and again, fast and short, needy. 

Yuuri realizes what’s happening just as Viktor chokes out a tremulous noise; white spills over Yuuri’s toes before soaking into his stocking. He can feel it, hot against his skin. 

The tension dissolves out of Viktor all at once. He lists, catching himself on the bed with one knee and dragging himself up beside Yuuri, hand sliding with broad possession from Yuuri’s hip to his back to his nape. 

Yuuri’s breathing is still clipped, stuttering out with small noises of frustration as he tries to push his underwear down. Viktor helps, which finally gives Yuuri the freedom to stroke fast and hard until Viktor’s wrist gets in the way, then his hand. His breath puffs over Yuuri’s ear as he shuffles close, edging Yuuri’s own hands aside. His touch is too good, too slow; Yuuri’s hips chase the perfect firm circle of Viktor’s fist, hungry. 

“Please,” he begs, throwing his leg over Viktor’s thigh to draw closer, pushing for more. Viktor murmurs against his ear, their cheeks and noses bumping. Foreheads together, Yuuri looks down between them, watching himself peek in and out of Viktor’s hand, panting as Viktor finally gives him what he wants — tight fast _yes_ , yes, _there_ — and come shoots out across their bellies, dripping over Viktor’s knuckles.

\+ 

Viktor purrs as Yuuri circles the sponge over his back, warm, sudsy water sluicing down the curve of his spine. He lets Yuuri selfishly enjoy the view for a few moments longer before settling back against Yuuri’s chest, head dropping to Yuuri’s shoulder. The water rises a little as he sinks down, splashing a small wave over the edge of the tub. 

The shadowed space behind Viktor’s ear is damp and fragrant, in perfect range of Yuuri’s kisses. Viktor worms his hand under Yuuri’s knees in the water, tugging his legs up until he’s wrapped firmly around Viktor’s waist, both feet in his lap. More water spatters onto the tile; Yuuri pinches one of Viktor’s nipples. 

“You’re making a mess,” he chides, adding a careful bite to Viktor’s ear for good measure. Viktor shrugs, rubbing his hands up and down Yuuri’s slippery shins like a contented, unconcerned cat. 

“Thank you,” he says abruptly, soft. 

“Hm?” Yuuri nuzzles into Viktor’s hair, drawing the sponge over his chest in idle swirls. Viktor’s hold tightens on his ankles, and Yuuri colors with sudden understanding. “Ah. I thought you’d think I was… or, y’know, that it was. Ridiculous. I didn’t expect you to like it?” 

“I did like it. I do,” Viktor says, with a low huff of laughter, reaching to capture Yuuri’s feet in his hands. “But I meant I’ve never… until you, no one has ever done something like that for me before. Ridiculous or not ridiculous.” He turns his face up, closing his eyes as Yuuri touches his cheek, thoughtful. 

Yuuri catches him, fingers curving under Viktor’s jaw to hold him steady. After a moment their lips separate with a soft noise, a quiet echo of the lapping bathwater.


End file.
